


Deep Night and the Monsters Within

by DizzyDrea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: James Bond hides in the shadows, a creature of living nightmares, the legacy of violence from a bygone era. He's loyal to no one but himself, until one night he meets someone who makes him wonder if he can learn to trust again.





	Deep Night and the Monsters Within

**Author's Note:**

> So, obviously there's something wrong with me. While everyone else has visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, I'm dreaming of vampires and Death. Still, this idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go until I'd written it. I imagined Daniel Craig as I was writing this, but you can imagine any Bond you want to because I've left his description vague for just that reason.
> 
> Disclaimer: James Bond at all its particulars is the property of Ian Flemming, Albert and Barbara Broccoli, MGM, Eon Productions and a lot of other people who aren't me. I'm doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

The shadows are deep in this particular warehouse, in this part of town. It's been abandoned for years, perhaps decades, smelling of must and decay and hopelessness. No one comes here; no one has come here for years. Decades even. As good a place as any to hide.

To kill.

Death is a familiar companion, even if he's never tasted it himself. He's delivered death without ceremony on many people in his long life. Too many to count, though somewhere in the back of his mind, in a place he doesn't care to touch too often, he knows just how many lives he's taken.

Tonight, for instance. Tonight, he's got a fresh kill, sitting in the shadows not ten feet from his perch under the dirty, half-broken windows of the warehouse. His victim lays in a pool of his own blood while he cleans the dagger he used to visit death upon the man.

Ah, yes, the dagger. A gift from his lord and master. Honed steel, nine inches long, it's etched on the handle with the crest of his King's house and name, a gift of gratitude, when he'd joined his King's army, all those years ago. Not the only gift he'd received, and not the only one he carries to this day; not even the most useful of the gifts his King gave him, but he keeps it as a reminder, not just a tool.

A reminder of the price of loyalty, if nothing else.

His own loyalty can be bought these days, though the cost is high. Rubles, yen, pounds sterling, even the almighty dollar. All of them can buy his loyalty for a day, a week, a month. Never permanent, his loyalties. He sells to the highest bidder because he has a skill they need. He doesn't need the money; he's got more than he could reasonably spend in ten lifetimes, but money is the only thing those that hire him understand. And whether it's on the side of right or deep in the shadows, he'll do whatever the money asks of him. 

It's what he's become after so many years. A fate he's come to accept if not embrace.

He pauses as he runs the cloth over the gleaming steel of the blade. There's a sound outside, footsteps coming closer. The footfalls are light, the click of the heels telling him it's a woman. He can't imagine what she's looking for; this part of the port of Riga is quiet this time of night, part of the reason he'd chosen it for his business. Perhaps she's come looking for him. 

He smiles the Devil's own smile at that. No one comes looking for him. He's death personified; no one in their right mind comes looking until they've no choice but to face it.

Still, the woman walks with purpose, not slowing until she reaches the door to his current refuge. He's curious, so instead of slinking away into the night, he stays, body hidden in the shadow cast by the moon peeking through the windows. 

The door opens and the woman steps inside on silent feet. She keeps to the shadows, her eyes scanning the room, though he knows she can't see anything. 

His own superior senses tell him all he needs to know about this interloper. She's young, perhaps in her thirties, pale white skin that glows in the thin light of the waning moon. Her hair is brown, verging on black, pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She's wearing all black, the better to blend into the shadows of night. But it's her heart that sends the clearest message. It's beating steadily in her chest, calm and clear and not the trip-hammer of fear that normally kicks up when someone is faced with the nightmare he's become.

"I know you're here," she says into the quiet, the lilt of her accent giving her away. English, unmistakably.

He's surprised, because she can't know that, not for sure. But her voice is steady, the sound low but enough to carry. He thinks about slinking away, leaving her with just a dead body and no clues to lead her to him. But he's curious about her, this woman who doesn't show fear, and so he steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

"And so I am," he says, his softly-accented voice caressing her from across the room. 

They stare at each other in the dim light of the warehouse. He can only imagine what she sees when she looks at him. He hadn't bothered to clean himself up, so he's still wearing another man's blood, marring the beauty of the finely tailored suit he'd put on that morning. Maybe she sees a monster, but if she does, she doesn't show it. Instead, her chin rises and she meets his eyes.

She's beautiful. All sharp edges and dangerous curves. The kind of beauty that would cut a man to ribbons just for standing too close. Not at all the kind of woman he's used to.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" she asks.

He does, but he's not going to make it easy for her. "There are many who seek out Death. You wouldn't be the first."

"You call yourself Death?" she asks, snorting. "Not much of an ego, then."

"I am the personification of Death," he says, circling around her, watching as she tracks him with her eyes. "The only people who've ever seen my face are dead. Or did you not think about that when you sought me out?"

If his words bother her at all, she's not showing it. Her heart still beats a steady rhythm in her chest. She is truly formidable for one so young.

"I want to offer you a job," she says instead of rising to his bait. "The people I work for have a use for your skills."

"And can they pay my price?" he asks.

"I'm not talking about hiring you for a price," she says, scoffing at the very idea. "I'm talking about giving you a purpose, a cause to believe in. Your loyalty for ours."

Quick as a flash, he's across the room, pinning her to the wall. "Killing is my purpose, and my loyalty is to myself. Beyond that, you have nothing I want."

He takes a deep breath, inhaling everything about this woman. He can smell her blood, singing sweetly under her skin, begging for him to taste. But he doesn't smell fear, only arousal, an attraction to danger that rivals his own.

He chuckles as he leans in close, pressing his nose behind her ear as he licks and nips at the vulnerable skin of her neck. "You court danger, and it arouses you. I find myself unwillingly fascinated by you. Tell me, do you know what I am?"

"Some say you are just a man with a taste for killing," she says, slightly breathless. "Others call you strigoi. Upir. Still others claim you are Dracul himself—"

He bites down on her neck, letting his fangs sink into her skin, filling his mouth with the taste of her blood. It's just as sweet as he'd expected, exploding on his tongue with all the complexity of wine. He can feel the intensity of her arousal now, and the swirl of her emotions is intoxicating. She's feeling triumphant, eager, avaricious. This Lady Danger is truly a unique woman.

He presses closer, swallowing the heady brew as he draws more from her. Her moans are a delicious soundtrack to the pleasure of feeding from her. Carefully, he pulls back, unwilling to drain her dry before he's finished having his fun. He nicks his tongue with a fang, spilling a little bit of his own blood which he uses to close the puncture wounds on her neck. 

He pulls back, putting a scant inch of space between them. "But you know better, don't you?"

"I believe you are a man called Yasha Bogdan. A Russian of Moldovan descent," she says, "and a member of Vlad Tepes' court."

He pauses, looking at her, tilting his head as he contemplates this new information. Somehow, this wisp of a woman has learned his most secret of secrets: his true name. And if she knows his true name, she knows who and what he is. It would explain why she's not as afraid as she should be. It's of no great importance, at any rate. He can still kill her and be done with this whole charade. Perhaps it makes him a bit like a cat playing with his food, but he wants to know where this leads, so he plays along.

"Well, now," he says, a slow smile spreading on his lips, still bright with her blood. He licks them leisurely, watching as her eyes follow the slide of his tongue over his lips. "It seems you know who I am, but I've no idea who you are."

"My name is Olivia Mansfield, and I work for MI6 on Her Majesty's Secret Service," she says, chin up, daring him to contradict her.

"And do they always send a babe to recruit the most dangerous man on Earth?"

She bristles, as he'd expected her to. "I am no child, Mr. Bogdan. I've come on important business. If you've no interest in joining us, I'll simply take my leave."

She turns to go, but he's faster. He's got her pinned to the wall, wrists held in a vise grip over her head, in a fraction of a second.

"Leaving so soon?" he asks, his voice a low purr. "We've barely been introduced, and I've only had one drink. Seems like you're in a hurry to go without observing the pleasantries."

"And if you drink me dry, if I don't check in with my team, this warehouse will be swarming with Her Majesty's finest within minutes," she says, defiance burning bright in her eyes.

He can't help it, he laughs. "And do you think I'll still be here when Her Majesty's finest arrive? I can move faster, run farther and survive longer than even their most skilled man. Your threats are empty. Meaningless."

"And are you willing to wager your future on the gamble that I don't have my team ready to take you down, just beyond the range of your hearing?" she asks.

It's the certitude in her voice that halts him. "And what do you know of my abilities?"

"We've tested them, in one much like yourself," she says. 

Her gaze is shrewd, calculating, and he's not sure he can trust it. But she's got his attention now. He tilts his head, giving her leave to continue. 

"When we found him, he was half dead. We helped him heal, gave him a purpose, a chance at living—really living—again. We—MI6—we have a use for your particular skillset. And unlike your previous master, we will not abandon you. You will have our loyalty, Yasha, and our gratitude. You will have purpose again. And friends to make the journey worthwhile."

"Who?" he asks, voice hard. "Who is it you think you have?"

"He was called Sandu when we found him," she says. "You know him as Sasha Trevelyan. We call him Alec. We gave him a new life, a new name. We can do the same for you."

"Why would you do this? Offer me this?"

"My loyalty is to the Crown, to England," she says quietly, but he can hear the conviction ringing in her words. "I will sacrifice anything, use any tool available, to protect what's mine. It is my purpose, my destiny. I can think of no better way to live my life, and if the cost for this is my own death, I'm prepared to pay."

"And is England worthy of that sacrifice?" he asks. 

"It is my home, Yasha," she says. "What would you do to protect your home?"

This gives him pause, because he remembers home, once upon a time. He remembers the green hills and the blue sky and the feeling of being rooted to the land in a way that defied explanation. He's not known that sense of home for a long, long time. It's tempting, as is meeting his old friend. They were boys together, and had even joined Vlad's army at the same time, looking for adventure. This life is not what either of them expected, but he supposes that life is much like a game of chance in that way. One never knows what the turn of the next card will bring.

"I haven't a home anymore, Olivia," he says, his gaze going hard as diamonds. "But if I did, I would burn the world to the ground to defend it. I would do anything, become anything, to preserve that which I love. If you really know Sasha, then you already know this."

Because that's what they'd done, all those many years ago. They'd followed Vlad out of Wallachia when he was exiled, and followed him every step of the way on the long quest to secure his return. Including into a cave where they'd heard tell of a pool, filled with dark water that could give a man the strength to defend his home. 

The water had tasted horrible, and the long night they'd spent in camp as it did whatever it was meant to do was as close to hell on earth as Yasha had ever wanted to get. But in the bright light of morning, Vlad had been the leader of an army of blood-thirsty hounds, ready and willing to make war, to spill blood, to kill to retake their homeland.

This was the monster that was made that night, and though many hundreds of years have passed, he is still that dark creature, now without a cause, for sale to the highest bidder. It's not the life he wants, but it's what he has now, and he's come to accept that. 

But Olivia's offer intrigues him, as does her bravery in the face of what he is.

"Why do you need me, if you've already got Sasha?" he asks, just to see what she'll say.

Her smile is quick and sharp like cut glass. "Because, I mean to be the Minister one day. And when I am, I want to have the best operatives I can get in my service. England will retake her place among the giants of the world, if I have my way."

"And will you be looking for more like me?"

"Perhaps," she says, her coy tone at odds with the brave, dangerous face she wears. "If they're willing to pledge their loyalty to me, to England."

Others. For a moment, he's drawn back to the past, to the memories of his fellow soldiers. Most hadn't survived the final battle, the one meant to retake Wallachia for Vlad. They'd won, but at a heavy cost. Those of his kind that had survived had simply drifted away, well aware that they were no longer needed. 

He'd lost track of them in his aimless wanderings. But every once in a while, he'll meet someone like him, some creature of violence and darkness, and see himself as if in a mirror. His brethren, it seems, had found a way to pass on this curse, this stain on the living. He's never done so; he doesn't want to condemn anyone else to this life. Others were not so circumspect.

"So, Mr. Bogdan," she says, breaking neatly into his wandering thoughts, "do we have a deal? Or will you bleed me dry and drift away into the shadows?"

A home, she'd said. A cause and a purpose instead of loyalty to money alone. It's like a dream that he can't believe is real, the idea that he could find the things he'd lost in that cave centuries ago. And yet, here it all is, the offer of a new life, wrapped in an attractive package with dark hair and luminescent skin.

He can take her now, fuck her and then drink her dry and be done with it. Or, he can follow her home and see where the future leads.

He steps back, releasing her from the prison of his arms, and cocks an eyebrow at her, waiting.

~o~

"Well, Mr. Bond, have you settled in?"

He stands before his new master, this man they call M, a new man with a new name and a new life. James Bond, that's what they call him now. He finds it suits him, as do the trappings of this future he's made for himself. The suit he wears is Saville Row, made of fine fabric and tailored to perfection. His penthouse apartment gleams with glass and chrome and leather, enough space that he could get lost if he wanted to. 

There's an itch under his skin, a desire to kill, to maim, to drink the life's blood of his victim, but he can be patient now. He's been promised whatever he needs, and he trusts Olivia to provide it for him, even if M is his new master now. Who knows? He may even give her some of his blood. Not enough to turn her, but enough to extend her life. He'd like to keep her around for a while.

It's taken some time for those in power to understand who he is—who they are—and what they're capable of. The myth of the vampire is nothing like the creature of reality. He can move about freely, day or night, and while he craves blood, he still needs food to survive. There are still stares and whispers in Vauxhall, those who still believe the old stories, but given time James is certain those will cease. 

For now, it's enough to have a place to belong. A home.

"I have, sir," he says.

"Good," the Minister says. He nods at both of them. "Take a seat, then, and we'll get started."

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined Kate Beckinsale as a young Olivia Mansfield (M) as I wrote this.
> 
> Also, this takes place sometime in the early 1950s, in case that wasn't clear.


End file.
